


sweater weather.

by amxriya



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, MCU
Genre: Biting, Creampie, Desperation, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, F/M, Face-Fucking, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sleepy Sex, Smut, but with a hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28690956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amxriya/pseuds/amxriya
Summary: ‘cause it's too cold for you hereand now, so let me holdboth your hands in the holes of my sweaterOR Steve comes home after being away for a bit.he's missed you.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 101





	sweater weather.

**Author's Note:**

> i shouldve been writing other things, but alas. motivation is a sick siren and i am merely but a worshipper to its sweet songs  
> i hope you enjoy <3

✾ ✾ ✾

Steve’s never said it out loud before - only because he’s never been prompted - but the transition from fall into winter is his favorite time of year. Losing his family so young proves for harsh memories, but when Thanksgiving turns into a small event spent watching heist movies - he's really grown a liking for _Ocean’s Eleven_ and _Tower Heist_ \- and preparing mac n cheese and stuffing with you in his arms, he can only see the upsides. You. _His girl._

It’s probably your favorite, too, if you're honest… Something about the cold weather in New York seems to discourage criminals. _You can't complain. Wouldn't even dare,_ because it means more time spent with him.

He came home around seven last night with a new VHS tape _(something he learned about and just won't let go)_ and two bottles of _Chateau Montelena - pronounced ‘Sha-Too Mon-Tell-A-Nuh’ as a terrible, terrible joke he won’t let go -_ in which you, with a smile on your face, caught the implications of the ruby liquid he clutched for dear life: 

_“Red wine is slutty, Steven.”_

_“Color me slutty, then.”_

It was the first time you’d had your hands on him in a month, and now that you're watching him sleep, mesmerized by the little sounds he makes - those soft, tiny noises akin to those of a cat’s purrs - and the way he bunches up the blankets when he flips over those few times throughout the night, burying himself like an adorable little groundhog - you think, _‘I wish I could have you to myself all the time.’_

_(It’s selfish, but whatever.)_

You wrap your arms around him, pull him in close to feel his warmth. He always smells good, even when he’s just come home all sweaty, you’ve found, and you still don't know how it’s possible for someone to smell like comfort. _Warmth._

_Cinnamon and bonfires._ Cinnamon from the soap he’s fallen in love with, and bonfires from… _somethin’._ You don't know, and neither does he. 

You run your nails over his scalp, smelling his shampoo, desperate to have your hands all over. Fingertips meet carved marble - his pecs, abs - and you rake, rubbing your thumbs in slow circles to wake him easy. Maybe it’s selfish again - he's probably tired, but you can't resist. _Refuse to,_ even, with the way the moonlight makes him glow, pale skin brought to life with glimmering, bluish light. _Blue’s always been his color._

He groans, still sleepy before he rolls over to face you, nudging your hip to flip you over. “Hey, doll.” His words, groggy, rumble against the back of your neck, arm sliding down to clutch the space just under your breasts. He hooks, possessive. “Time is it?” 

“Three A.M.” 

You rut your ass back into his hips, his cock, already half-hard, and he gets the memo, knows you’re wanting. He hums, and the sound sends chills up your spine as he slips a hand to the space just below your ear and strokes gently, moving any errant hairs out of the way with a hazy, rough whisper of, _“Needy baby.”_

Kisses to that spot right below your earlobe make you tremble, your body lighting up with that familiar feeling he never fails to provide, his hands heavy and _warm,_ his touches electricity. He guides your hand back to his boxers before pulling down your panties just enough for access. “You want it slow, doll?” he says, reclaiming his cock with his own hand, sluicing up the tip with the slick gushing from your pussy. 

A weak nod is all he needs before he maneuvers your legs and slides inside, slow, _so, so slow,_ lowly moaning in your ear with every inch engulfed. He sighs when buried, stroking your hip before another languid stroke, admiring your perfect body - _all his -_ in the dreary moonlight. 

Soft whines, gentle moans, broken whispers of his name… He likes you like this - all… _fragile_ from his touch, that slight rocking of your hips into his when he hits a spot that makes your toes _curl - right there, Stevie -_ and that way you turn to pieces with every movement, every word. “You smell so _good…_ Just like me…”

And then there’s a lazy rhythm, the occasional smack of his thighs against your ass, wet kisses pressed to your back, all while he tells you just how much he adores you, how much he missed you, with his hand nestled loosely underneath your chin, almost as if to say, _Mine._

_All mine again._

✾ ✾ ✾

A new day. 

The midday sun creeps through the windows, illuminating tangled bodies and depleted wine bottles, crimson red morphed into emerald green. The yellow and orange rays swirl into a symphony, adorn his cut body, make him look so pretty. 

_Golden God. Beautiful._

You unwrap yourself from him after brief adoration, your mind already set on other tasks. 

On the ottoman at the end of the bed, already unwrapped, lies the brand new sweater you just purchased, pre-distressed because you thought it’d be cute on him… but more importantly, you thought it’d be cute on _you,_ too. 

You slip it on, despite it being _way_ too big for you - but that’s kind of the point - and head out onto the balcony that overlooks the backyard, adorned with a lemon and orange tree, both covered in a thin layer of frost from last night’s harsher weather. Today, though, it’s a cool fifty degrees, perfect for sitting and scrolling Instagram while in his sweater and sweats. 

The door creaks as he slides out in a pair of plaid pajama pants, lifting his arm over his head to scratch his bicep, eyes squinted, still looking sleepy. You peer up at him over your phone with a smile, free hand reaching out to grasp for his, which he takes gently before pulling you out of your seat. 

It’s almost instinctual, the way he guides you to the edge of the balcony and settles behind you, arms tucked under yours and wrapped around your stomach. The lemon tree is where he sets his sights, chin finding the nook of your shoulder and neck, the warmth from his chest pressing against your back. He hums, the vibrations ripple down your spine. “I love that tree.”

“I prefer the orange. She’s cuter.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he pauses to press a kiss into your jaw, “yeah…” Warmth meets your collarbones, his lips travelling your upper body as he strokes your hips, depriving you of the much appreciated heat across your stomach. You make a noise, a sort of… _delighted_ disappointment - happy with the attention, missing his warmth - but then his hips drag forward, and that’s when you feel his cock, a hard line against his thin pants, rubbing deliciously against the globe of your ass - 

Your stomach jumps when he does it again and nestles his body up to yours.

“Stevie…” you whisper, chills cascading down your back as he nudges your head to the side, carves out a place for his lips to land against the column of your throat. He bites lightly, and you immediately know what he’s feeling: _lust, desire, need -_

He wants to _fuck._ **_Now._ **

The thought gets lost in the press of his hand between your thighs, and any remaining sense packs up and leaves, no warning, no hesitation. He murmurs your name, and there’s some sort of… _yearning_ about it, almost like he didn't see you last night… “You should wear my stuff more often.” Your breath hitches when his hand slips beneath your waistband, fingers rolling over your clit in slow, hypnotic circles… “Looks good on you… _Me.”_

_"Please."_

It’s _intoxicating - him,_ his desperation, and it makes the synapses in your brain fizzle out, send electric shocks down to your toes and right back up to the tip of your head, and, _yeah,_ it’s a different kind of heat, but one that burns in the same way, and then you realize - “Wait - We’re… It’s…” 

_You’re still outside._

“Hmm?” he says, slipping both waistbands off your actual _waist,_ shimmying them below the curve of your ass before fondling with little groans, and, _God,_ you’d _kill_ to hear that sound more often, to hear his sounds more often - 

_You’re still outside._

“It’s cold.” 

“What a shitty reason.” 

Maybe it is.

_(It is.)_

There’s a bit more maneuvering - your hips are pulled back to fit against his better, his pajama pants are shimmied down below his cock, and he’s rubbing the tip, dripping with precum, against your holes, which is making it _so_ much fucking harder to focus on the fact that - 

_You're still outside,_ and Steve fucking Rogers should _not_ be trying to fuck you on your patio in the middle of fucking autumn because someone might fucking _see_ \- “But… you…” _you take a deep breath,_ “...you don't have a shirt on.” _Another shitty reason._ A prod at your entrance makes your legs weak, a little shake that clearly betrays how wrong you know this is - 

“I’ll hold my hands in the holes of your sweater.” 

“Oh, _God - ”_ you sigh, all concerns temporarily fleeting when you feel him press past, slowly eating away at your resolve, warm, calloused hands rubbing at your skin. 

“Good, baby?” he mutters, inhaling deeply when he brings his nose to the crook of your neck, letting your scent warm his chest. He wiggles his hips ever so slightly, lets you adjust to those few inches as he waits for a response, imprinting kisses into your throat, hands pawing your breasts through the soft material of the sweater.

You nod, get a few muffled words out, your grip tightening on the railing as he buries himself to the hilt, stretching tender skin taut, still slow, still holding you steady, _so fucking deep._ “What if someone sees?” you breathe, words getting caught in the back of your throat - _God, you're so full -_ as you peer over your shoulder at him, noticing his frosty eyes have been completely devoured by the onyx of his pupils, lids hooded, hair mussed. _He’s hungry._

An open-mouthed kiss finds your neck. “Don't care. Want you _here,”_ he whispers. 

_Dirty boy._

You nod again, too… _blissed out_ to do anything else but let him have you _here - of all places,_ **_here_ ** \- and you’d be a liar if you didn’t admit the faint thought of someone _seeing_ makes your body thrum something awful. He rocks, just a bit, humming in your ear when your walls flutter around him, then again, and again, until he starts up a lusty rhythm, hips rolling into your ass, eyes fixed on the way your mouth stutters open every time he nudges that sweet spot inside. “Still my babydoll, aren’t ya?” 

He leans down, hunches over you, hand sliding up your chest. It settles beneath your chin, strong, large, and two fingers slip under your tongue as he fucks. “Missed it. Missed you.” An errant bead of sweat catches between his teeth, licked from your neck, and his warmth sends little pricks through your skin. Knuckles turn white when he grazes your shoulder in a bite, sinking his teeth, and there will likely be a mark tomorrow, but the thought sends you _reeling._ “Tell me you missed me, baby.” His desperate tone is decorated with a shaky breath. 

You whine, manage to get a few words out, muffled by his fingers thrusting gently, hand holding a loose grip on your jaw - _his._

“Gonna make you sloppy, huh?” Tender, bruises on your insides, you feel him _pounding,_ gripping, pawing, hand hooked in your mouth in greed, in _possession,_ claiming you and embedding himself. He wants it _all._ “Gonna fuck you open, right here for everyone to see, sweetheart… see how much I missed ya…” He wraps himself around you, possesses you, makes you feel him everywhere, in every nerve, and your body thrums with excitement, head lolling back onto his shoulder, mouth drenching his fingers in spit. 

_How does he do it?_

He slips a hand through one of the holes in the sweater, clutching your stomach, nails clawing your sensitive skin, begging to be everywhere at once, begging to _feel_ himself everywhere at once - _You’re mine, baby._ \- 

The sounds keep getting caught in your throat as that sinful, obscene noise of his skin slapping against yours makes your stomach do flips, your sweetness swimming in the air from the wetness between your legs. His fingers dip down between your thighs, spreading your wetness around your clit in frantic, taunting circles, pressing, and rubbing, and rolling, and the coil in your stomach can’t stop tightening with the dirty words mumbled into your shoulder - _Squeezin’ me good, yeah… Yeah, what if someone sees, doll? Sees you takin’ my cock so good? -_

You moan, a wretched sound that pulls a little laugh from him when he discovers that, yeah, you actually _like_ this, like the faint chance someone might see how needy Steve Rogers gets for you after he’s been away for too long, too depraved to even think straight without making sure his cock still _fits_ the way he remembers, that you still _feel_ the way he remembers, the way he _dreams_ about when he has to spend nights at the Avengers compound. Like a glove one size too small - tight, and snug, and so, _so_ perfect - 

“My baby likes it, huh? Gonna leave you a mess for everyone to see, doll… You want that?”

“Please, Stevie - ” 

“Come on,” he pants, fingers smearing your drool across your chin before turning your head over your shoulder. “Need my best girl to come for me - Make my cock filthy with it sweetheart - ”

His teeth graze your shoulder just as he bites one more time, and you fall apart, moaning his name like a bitch in heat, all sensations from the cold muted as you jerk your hips back into his, your pussy like a vise around his cock as he keeps slamming into that sweet spot - 

_“Gonna give it to you, baby… Gonna give it all to you - Been too long, y’know? Can’t - Can’t keep my fuckin’ hands offa you - Gonna fill you nice ‘n full, doll - ”_

And with a strangled groan, he buries himself _deep,_ hips rutting and painting your bruised insides with thick ribbons of white, the remainder of his thrusts absolutely deranged, grunts broken up by stuttering pulses, hands forcing your hips back into his with a bruising grip. 

The two of you sit there for a while, you desperately trying to catch your breath, collar wicked with sweat, him panting and whispering nonsense into your ear - _You’re so good to me_ \- and decorating your cheek and neck with sloppy, wet kisses. He pulls out after you feel like you can stand, and feels his chest tighten at the way his seed looks spilling out of you, adorning the insides of your thighs with his mark. _Wrong for Captain America to be turned on by that, isn’t it?_

_Oh, God, how he's missed you._

He pets the inside of your thighs with a few fingers before gathering the juices, then bringing slickened fingertips up to your lips. 

You whine at the taste, sending the vibrations through his hand as you clean him with a smile on your face, licking your lips, He growls before kissing you hard, gripping the back of your head harshly, craning your neck backward to have your mouth the way he wants it. 

“S’little bit cold, isn't it?”

✾ ✾ ✾

**Author's Note:**

> thanx for reading lolz


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